The Damned Summer (The Ruin Trilogy) (10 page)

"Just like tonight," he whispered,
looking at the crushed aluminum. "Same as my chances with Jenny."

Lighting up, he circled the car and then
looked back at the road.

"Should be able to back up out of here,
so long as she starts."

He climbed back into the old Ford, cranking
her over and letting her run for a moment, giving it a little gas. She ran loud
and clean, just like the old whore she was. Once he was sure she was going to
run, he shut her down and cracked open a beer.

Moving back to the trunk and leaning against
it, he looked back at the road he flew off of not so long ago. Taking a deep
drag off his cig.

"This is as good of a time and place for
a moment of reflection on the events of the evening." He let out a loud
belch. "Who knows, maybe this is fate that I'm out here in the middle of a
fucking bean field in the dead of night." Looking over to his right, he
saw the old abandoned house less than half a mile away. 

Just like everyone else in town, he knew the
history behind the house. "Well, isn't that just creepy," he said,
taking another drink. "Of all the places fate could land me," he
chuckled.

The humor would have been lost if Drew had
known who was in that house at that very moment.

The sex was everything that Johnny could have
asked for: primal and violent, with her hurting him almost as much as he hurt
her. He had a lot of frustration to vent and she was just what the doctor
ordered. 

Johnny and the demon sat in the darkness naked,
drinking whiskey and beer, smoking weed as well, genuinely enjoying one
another's company, which was a first for him, since he was always done with a
girl once the sex was over.

Johnny enjoyed the demon because she agreed
with everything he said. She also thought that all the others needed a wake up
call, except Drew, he just needed to be dead.

"What about Jenny?" the creature
from hell asked, loading the pinchee and handing it to him. "Does she need
more than just a kick in the ass?"

Johnny contemplated on that, taking a deep
drag from his one hitter, followed by a long drink of overpriced whiskey.
"Yeah, she needs axed too, but before Drew," he looked at his new
friend and giggled. "So he can watch."

The demon took the bottle of Dead Ace,
tipping it towards Johnny. "Man after my own heart."

The demon also enjoyed Johnny's company, but
for a different reason: it didn't have to come up with any of the dark and
dirty, Johnny had that completely under control.

The fiend exchanged the whiskey bottle for
the pipe. "Like taking candy from a baby," she said with a dark
laugh.

Johnny nodded his head in agreement as he
started to slobber out of the corner of his mouth, pitching to the floor as he
passed out.

The demon looked at him for a moment before
getting up and walking toward the door. "Gotta tell ya, Johnny," she
said, looking back. "I was really hoping this was going to be more of a
challenge for me." She let out a small sigh. "Ends justify the means,
I suppose."

She went to the window, looking out at Drew
as he finished his beer, climbed in his car, and fishtailed his way back onto
the road.

The demon looked back at the unconscious
Johnny. "Well, that was one ship that sailed out without us."

Johnny seemed to let out a long snore in
reply.

"Don't worry, champ. We'll get him next
time."

Frank and Lloyd were enjoying yet another
dream wove from the past. Frank was still young, his wife and child were still
alive and they were having a picnic at the park. Technically this would have
been decades before Lloyd would have been born, but dreams have a way of
fudging through things like that.

Frank had his arm around Beth's shoulder,
watching Lisa giggle as Lloyd licked her nose.

"That's just so precious, I'm getting
goosebumps," the voice from behind said.

As soon as the sentence was over, so was the
picnic, disappearing along with his wife and child. The park suddenly got dark
and windy. Lloyd wasn't making a sound, but he was showing his teeth.

Frank turned around, suddenly nose to nose
with the demon.

"Long time, no see, Franky," the
demon said with an unnaturally long smile.

"I thought that was what you were wanting,
demon."

"Oh it is, it is," the monster
agreed, taking a step back, raising his hand in an almost peaceful jester.
"I've been leavin' you alone all this time in dreamland, letting you
relive all of these pleasant memories instead of taking up your sleep time with
senseless combat." It pointed its fingers at Frank. "You've been
enjoying that right? Appreciating it?"

"We both know, the only way you can get
into the dreams of others is getting past mine," Frank replied.
"Since you haven't been showing up for the fight, that tells me you
haven't been up to much in the dreams of others lately. So as far as I see it,
you haven't done me any favors, you're just tired of getting your ass kicked
every night."

"I will admit, ever since your partner
showed up, your win ratio has increased considerably," the monster
conceded with a nod. "Back in the day, when it was just you and me, I'd
say it went about sixty percent of the time my way, but now that you've got the
little killer here," it pointed at the dog. "I'm lucky if I scoot
past you two any better than ten percent."

"Not even half that," Frank
corrected.

The monster shrugged. "Whose keeping
track? Especially now."

"Why are you here?" Frank asked.

"Just making sure we are still square on
our deal, is all."

"You being here kind of goes against
that."

"I'm leaving right now, I just wanted to
reiterate that the entirety of the deal is that I stay out of your dreams, and
you stay out of my way in the waking hours, right?"

"Have you seen much of me around town
lately?" Frank asked. "Have you caught me following you
recently?"

"Nope, not at all. I was just making
sure we were on the same page is all."

"We'll never be on the same page, but I
understand what you want perfectly. Now get out of here before you break your
own deal.

"You've got it Franky," the monster
said, folding off into nothingness.

Frank turned to Lloyd. "Whatever grand
scheme he's planning is about to happen."

Lloyd replied with a quick sneeze.

Even though the demon had left
Frank's dream, its presence had still forced him awake. After a moment of Frank
staring at the ceiling, Lloyd also woke up. The dog moved closer to his friend,
lying down beside him with his chin on Frank's chest.

"Don't think I'm going to be
able to go back to sleep," Frank said, still looking at the ceiling.
"How about you?"

Lloyd answered by jumping off the
bed and moving off down the hallway.

With a sigh, Frank got up,
following Lloyd toward the living room. "Hope late night T.V. is better
than it was when I was a kid."

Entering the living room, Frank
flipped the light switch, which resulted in a soft pop, as the light bulb gave
its dying salute to electric light as the filament inside the glass broke in
two.

"This night keeps getting
better," Frank said, making his way to the garage, hoping there were some
extra bulbs in one of the cabinets.  

Frank and Lloyd made their way
into the garage. He flipped the light switch, which replied with a small pop,
perfectly mimicking its cousin from the living room.

"Don't that figure,"
Frank commented, walking past his old motorcycle that was covered with a
blanket. "Need to sell this damn thing." He knew he wouldn't though,
the old bike had too much history with him. To sell the cursed relic to another
would be teasing the fates. Tempting them to start up another cycle of darkness
that he had spent so much of his own life stopping. He finally had laid all his
old tools of darkness to rest, he wasn't about to let one of the biggest ones
ride out of here to cause more trouble.

Memories of
his youth crept back into his mind yet again. He had left for Vietnam as a punk
kid always looking for trouble, running with the wrong crowd. All the death,
murder and evil of Nam had changed all that though. He had graduated from a
juvenile delinquent to a full blown outlaw.

April 24th of
1970 was when Frank returned from the war. He had gotten the letter from his
mother about how his father had died one night of alcohol poisoning. His dad's
demise was quite unfortunate, since Frank was looking forward to telling him
how he had lost his precious switchblade.

His mother
met him at the door of the tiny, dingy house out in the middle of nowhere with
a big hug. She was a decent mom, broken, mainly by his father's hand, but
decent all the same.

"I'm so
happy you're back," she said, holding onto him like he was a life
preserver in the cold, choppy sea.

"Me too ma,"
he lied. He had no intentions of sticking around.

She took him
inside and fed him some country fried steak from meat that didn't get much
tougher from a domesticated animal, with watery gravy and mashed potatoes that
were more mashed than potato. Compared to the rations he had been eating in the
jungle, it was a meal meant for kings.

"Could I
borrow the car to go into town and pick up a couple a things at the
store?" he asked, finishing up his meal.

"Cars on
the fritz," she replied. "Haven't had the money to get it looked at
yet."

"I'll go
take a look at it," he put his plate in the sink, washing it off.
"Maybe I can get her moving."

"Oh
honey, you deserve a break," she rubbed his back. "Why don't you go
turn on the TV and I'll bring you an ice tea?"

"Naw,"
he said, heading toward the screen door. "I'd rather work on an engine
than stare at the tube anytime." He made his way into the night, toward
the dark barn.

The huge,
ancient, driftwood door creaked open in protest as he made his way into the shadowed
building. He knew the barn like the back of his hand, walking straight to the
chain in the blackness, grabbing it on the first try and yanking it, turning
the lone light bulb on.

The single
sixty watt bulb cast the large room in a misty light as hay dust floated on the
air like dead butterflies. He saw the rusting, light blue Buick sitting in
front of him like a giant metal coffin. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the
old motorcycle in the corner of the room, hiding in the shadows like a serial
killer.  

His dad had
brought the bike back from his war, just like the knife, which is something you
think Frank would have picked up on at the time, but hey, a free bike is still
a free bike, especially to a young vet with no extra money to blow on a new one.
Besides, the knife had been a weapon, this was just a bike. The only person he
could kill on the motorcycle was himself. It was an army issue Indian
motorcycle that the old man had quickly stripped all the military shit off of
and painted flat black. She had some miles and age to her, but Frank was a good
mechanic with both motorcycles and cars, so he knew enough to keep her running.

Taking a look
at both the car and the bike, he quickly surmised the bike needed less work to
get going. In fact, there was a good chance he could get the Indian going
tonight.

After about
an hour and a half of work, he finally kicked the old bike over and got her
running. She sputtered and spat for a few moments and then started evening out,
running almost smoothly.

"Let's go
get a drink, girl," he dropped her in first and shot out of the barn,
snapping the light chain as he went by, sending the barn back into blackness as
the bike hit the gravel road and sped up, roaring off into the night.

He got her up
to about seventy before she started rattling so bad she was either going to
start falling apart or she was going to shake Frank right off the seat. Slowing
her down to sixty, she seemed to calm down.

He saw a road
tavern coming up. "
Balls are getting numb anyway,"
he thought to
himself as he slowed the shaky bike to a stop, parking her next to the front
door.

He climbed
off the bike, noticing another group of motorcycles off to the side. There were
five Harleys, most in as bad a shape as his Indian. Being out of town for a couple
of years, Frank didn't think anything of it, guessing they were local bikes.

Walking into
the bar, the tension came over him like the smoke of a cheap cigar as he closed
the door.

Taking in the
room, he decided the motorcycles were definitely not local, cause their owners
were in the corner playing pool and the jean jacket vests they were wearing was
proof they were out of town bikers. The patch on the back of their jackets was
a zombie skull that looked like it had come right off the wardrobe rack of a
George Romero movie, all red eyes and melting flesh. Above the zombie's rotting
skull was the name:
Dead Bikers
and to the left of the monsters grinning
teeth were the letters:
MC
. The biker who had his back to Frank turned
around, forcing Frank to no longer see the ghoulish patch and instead look at
the man wearing it.

The biker
gave him a look that wasn't much better than the zombie on his back. It was at
that point Frank noticed they were all looking at him in the same way. He gave
them a quick nod of his head and then made his way to the bar.

"Welcome
home Frank," Mike the bartender said, putting a draft beer in front of
him. He knew Frank from his dad, who had been one of his best customers back
when he was alive. "This one's on the house, soldier, you earned it,
that's for sure."

"Thanks
Mike," Frank said, taking a long drink from the frosted mug. "Looks
like you're serving a different kind of thirsty in here," he tipped his
head back towards the bikers in the corner.

"Not by
choice," Mike replied, laying his beefy arm on the bar. The bartender
stood about six feet tall and weighed north of three hundred pounds, so he
wasn't easily intimidated, but Frank could see the concern in the big man's
eyes. "They came roaring in here about three hours ago." Mike pointed
a thumb over at two guys who were sitting a couple of stools down from Frank.
"That's why Bob and John are still here. They normally come in for a
couple of beers and are gone by nine, but since the criminal element is here,
they are going to wait until the cabinet crowd gets here before they
leave."

The cabinet
crowd were the factory workers from the cabinet building plant just down the
street. Second shift got off at eleven and would be here by ten after. It
always varied by how many came in, but the normal number for a Thursday night
would be about half a dozen.

The Chevy
plant was further down the road but much larger, so by eleven thirty ten to
twenty more thirsty, worn out assembly line workers would walk through the door
as well.

Both crowds
were extremely loyal to their watering hole, so they would make sure that there
were plenty around at closing, in case the bikers wanted to keep partying when
it was time to leave.

Frank glanced
at Bob and John, tipping his beer to them. They replied in the same fashion.
They were both average in size and weight and well into their fifties. Neither
had the look of a dangerous man, but some could hide that quite well. Either
way, until the factory workers got here, the bikers had the advantage in numbers,
and as Frank looked back at the group and got a better look at them he noticed
that wasn't the only advantage they had.

The closest
one to him was chalking his pool stick, getting ready to shoot. He was a
skinny, little guy. Barely over five feet tall but the tattoo on his arm is
what caught Frank's eye. He was too far away to make out the writing but the
image below the letters told him plenty. It was a drawing of a rat, standing on
two legs. A short barreled revolver was in one of its hands and a bottle of
booze was in the other. The evil grin on its face would have made the devil
proud. Frank knew what that rat meant, he had seen it once on a sign above the
place that was the home of the tunnel rats, the crazy guys that crawled into
the tunnels looking for the Cong over in Vietnam. Frank only knew two things
about the rats from the 1st Engineering Battalion: they weren't right in the
head, and you never crossed one unless you were ready to die, because they sure
were.

All the
bikers had military tattoos either on their biceps or forearms. Two of them,
both standing right around six feet tall had the airborne insignia of the
parachute with the wings to either side. They were the bad asses that jumped
out of planes, helicopters, or whatever else that put them right in the middle
of the shit-storm. The airborne guys were balls to the wall and some were as
crazy as the tunnel rats.

Then there
was the monster leaning up against the wall, watching the game. He stood at
least six foot six but he had this crazy, out of control curly hair that made
him look an easy two inches taller. His arms were as thick as tree trunks and
on one of them had a tat of the head of a bulldog with the letters USMC above
it. He was a marine, same as Frank.

The big
marine should have been the most physically intimidating of the group but for
some reason he wasn't. For when the last of the group stood up from his seat
and stepped into the light, Frank somehow knew this was the one in charge, the
one that was the most dangerous.

He stood a
couple of inches taller than the airborne guys but was still nowhere near the
size of the marine. He was as skinny as the tunnel rat, but his arms and legs
were long and gangly, like an out of control ivy vine, growing off a tree.

Leaning down
into the light that hung above the pool table, he looked back at Frank. There
wasn't any malice in the biker's eyes as they stared at one another, but Frank
could sense the menace that lurked behind the leaders irises, like a young
storm cloud building into a deadly tempest.

The lead
biker tilted his head slightly, raising his eyebrows as he kept looking at
Frank. The reaction could be interrupted as an invitation to come over, or as a
question of what the hell did he think he was looking at.

Frank thought
about it for about half a second and then grabbed his beer and started making
his way towards the bikers.

"Frank?"
Mike whispered as he walked away from the bar, which Frank ignored. Time seemed
to slow as his steps thudded across the wooden floor. The tunnel rat and
airborne that were playing pool stopped, sitting the bottom of their pool
sticks on the floor, looking like soldiers holding spears. They were all
looking at him now, open dislike and borderline hostility on all their faces
except the leader, who still held the same unknown look.

He reached
the pool table, about to greet them when the tunnel rat stepped forward,
cutting him off.

"What
the fuck you looking for, man?" spittle flew from the rat's mouth as he
spoke. "A quick death?"

"Take it
easy, Beans," the lead biker commanded from behind. "This here man is
a fellow vet, so let's give him the benefit of the doubt."

Beans looked
Frank up and down, looking for verification.

Frank turned
the inside of his right arm out, showing the marine image of the world with the
anchor behind it and the eagle on top. The words
19th Battalion
was
written below it.

Beans gave a
slight nod and then went back to shooting pool, like Frank wasn't even there.